Providence
by Platinum Egoiste
Summary: Cullen acknowledges that he has a thing for mages. He dreams of heroic women-mages and finds one of his own. Cullen/femMageWarden, Cullen/femMageHawke, but really Cullen/femMageInquisitor.


**Title: Providence**

**Summary**: Cullen acknowledges that he has a thing for mages. He dreams of heroic women-mages and finds one of his own. Cullen/femMageWarden, Cullen/femMageHawke, Cullen/femMageInquisitor.

**Author's Thoughts:** This fic has lot of speculation, since DA:I isn't out yet at the time of writing. Personalities and other details may very well be different once the game is out. I wanted a sweet and short piece about everyone's favorite Templar and just couldn't wait until this November.

* * *

The Maker has a grand sense of humor.

Cullen is a man of the faith, through and through - he is a child fed the hymns of the Chant, a man fitted with His army's plates and trained in the holy art of war. He is unnervingly devoted and dedicated, a Maker-loving soldier who wielded piousness just as well as his longsword.

Or was devoted, as is more appropriate.

He sat in the war room of the keep, a map of Thedas splayed out before his table. There were little figurines scattered about, ink fingerprints around the edges, and a blot of red wine from a goblet Bull had knocked over (the mercenary had looked sheepish when it happened - at least, as sheepish as horned, gray Qunari could look). He fingered a particular rip near the edge where he sat. It had been a companion of his through his musings in the room, through hours of meetings and discussions. He stared at his friend, careful not to rip it any further.

The others around the room seemed awake enough, if not content to be there. He wanted to stand and stretch and run around; he longed for that adrenaline once more. It had been a while since he was pulled for combat. The Inquisition had had a quiet though successful streak with recent conquests. He was no longer a soldier, but a general of war. Words and thoughts were demanded from him, not parries and ripostes.

Cullen, soldier of the Chantry, military general of the Inquisition, was bored and a little sleepy at the nightly report.

He tuned back to the Inquisitor, their beloved leader. Her commanding voice was normally sharp and commanding, a uplifting prod to their countenance for the battles to come. Tonight, it was a little shaky, distracted even. She was moving the figurines on the map and discussing the-

"Ser Cullen."

He looked up and straightened his posture. "Serah?" He defaulted to the Kirkwaller greeting, an old habit. All eyes were on him. He stopped toying with the tear on the map.

"The situation on the last two strongholds, please." The Inquisitor's two long fingers tapped points on the parchment before them.

"Ah yes, well…"

* * *

Where was he?

Ah yes, the Maker had a grand sense of humor it seems. For Cullen, the ever-devout templar who could spout off the dangers of the Fade and its denizens, military general of the very organization sought to save the world literally torn apart by magic, has a _thing_ for mages.

For woman-mages. For powerful woman-mages.

For powerful, _beautiful_ woman-mages caught in their crumbles on their own worlds and may or may not have been the forces that rocked its foundations in the first place. He figures it is some sort of cruel trial of his piety or perhaps punishment for his tenure as a previously devout mage-hunter.

It's not really that he had a _thing_ for mages, but perhaps he just happened to be acquainted and eventually smitten with the three most important people of his generation, all of whom happened to be female, heroic, and of magical talent.

Maybe it's those damn robes. All tailored, detailed, and _soft._

It started with the Hero of Ferelden, or as he knew her then, just one of the many mage apprentices in Kinloch Hold.

Circles were not always solitary places, despite the tensions between their magical inhabitants. Some mages could not trust one another possibly ratting them out to the templars while most formed bonds to replace the families they had just lost. Some were content in the cage of the Circle, where others thrashed violently along the bars.

This girl had been kind to him, as were few of the apprentices. Templars were trained to be chivalrous and to expect little in return from their charges. She was nice to look at, as were many other non-mage-females as well. She had even chatted with him regularly, a need that he did not necessarily lack due to kinship with his fellow templars. Her smile was friendly, welcoming, even accepting of his duties - a gift that drew the deepest of flushes from young, naive Templar Cullen.

Cullen could not point out what drew him to her, or her to him. The Hero had been sweet and innocent, like all magelings, but friendly persistence from her side had convinced him that she was indeed special. And of course, all girl-magelings turn into woman-mages; cheeks soften out, faces don blush, legs elongate, and curves become tauntingly _full_.

Of course, the robes don't really help his case either (or do they?)

She was ripped from the Circle, violently as the Blight that ravages their country. The mage moved on to stations that he cannot reach and was no longer his charge. She had become a harrowed mage, a Grey Warden, a dead-Grey Warden by news of Ostagar, and exited from his life triumphantly as Hero of Ferelden.

He knows it could have never been, that it was mere infatuation. He was templar, she was a mage, and it was never meant to be. Still, truth does nothing to stifle the wishes of soft kisses and sweet words.

* * *

Then came Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, the boldest apostate in lands south of Tevinter. Where the Hero of Ferelden was soft, sweet, and played with snowflakes from her fingers, Marian tumbled into his world, loud, rash, and armed with fire and lightning on each hand.

Cullen has seen - nay, he has fought along the Champion's side twice.

The first time was against abominations during his investigation of foul play within the Kirkwall Order. He had drawn his sword and shield as he had felt the Veil tear on that cliff, ready to defend the strange ragtag group that interfered. To his relief, they had drawn weapons of their own and fought well. To his surprise, the Hawke woman had no qualms about using her abilities in front of the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall.

It was a quick fight, thanks to the extra firepower of her group. Cullen remembers the heat of her firestorms as the heavens opened as her will. He remembers scrambling to dodge her icicles after they had pierced through the abomination he was facing. He recalls his own shock as she has begun to beat a shade with her staff and his fleeting thought of 'oh, I didn't know staves could be used like that.' Her companions showed no surprise to their dear leader's recklessness and for a non-Circle-trained mage, he was thankful how little friendly fire had been dealt.

He watched her surge through the ranks of nobility, evading the tendrils of the Chantry with each step she took. Whispers in the Gallow barracks painted her as ruthless and promiscuous, a voracious woman eyeing the seat of the Viscount or even an elaborate plan set-up by the Antivan Crows to oust the Knight-Commander. More than once had Meredith interrogated her Knight-Captain about Hawke. To his superior's disappointment, Cullen had little to report, other than the fact that she was an apostate. He had no evidence to prove (or disprove, as well) the rumors but she had seemed sane enough. The choice of her companions did not help dispel the gossip, but the very same whispers shielded the Champion and her brood just as well as her strength.

Her eyes were fierce, he remembered. Strong, grim, and ever-so determined. Despite her name, Hawke fought like a feral mabari, thrashing and biting at anything that threatened her friends. She was no thaumaturgist to sit at the rear flank, nor some saboteur ready to prepare glyphs and hexes. The Champion was a warrior that lept into battle head-on; a woman used to throwing fireballs as well as punches. She secured great respect within the city and fierce loyalty from her group. The Champion was the tide of the battle, and not surprisingly, the force needed to reclaim the Gallows and to defeat the deranged Knight-Commander.

That was the second time Cullen had seen her fight.

In the end, she had spared the life of the damnable mage that was responsible for the destruction of the Chantry and half of Hightown. Cullen watched as she grabbed the guilty man's arm - he was injured in the fight, like the rest of them - and helped him down the stairs, away from the templars. He noticed her tenderness towards the penitent puddle of an apostate and felt a twinge of anger (or jealousy?)

Cullen had rallied his men towards the Gallows to save the remaining mages instead of giving chase. For the next several years, he would rebuild the City of Chains while dreaming of wondrous tempests wrought by savage woman-mages.

* * *

In the Inquisitor, he sees the fierceness and ruthlessness of the Champion as he listened to her strategize and rally the common folk under her command. She ruled her small army with a firm hand. Calm and collected, the Inquisitor holds the fate of the world in her hands (literally) and has accepted her role with a cool grace that would be sung by bards and noted by historians for generations to come (as Leliana and Varric reassured her countless times over).

Yet for all her duties and the power she wields, the Inquisitor has not hardened into a tyrant or worse, begun a descent into madness. She bore a silent strength, molded from cool steel, yet retained a friendliness that seemed foreign in such a time of distraught - a well-known hallmark of Ferelden's beloved Hero.

Cullen has watched her interact with her battle compatriots. Varric and Dorian tell the lewd jokes that incite her mirth. Vivienne showered their leader with her fashion advice. She and Solas were prone to endless debates on all things magical and Fade-related. The Inquisitor had slowly charmed each of her companions, including Cullen. Even the ever vigilant Cassandra seemed to loosen up around her.

Due to his position, he does not watch the Inquisitor or any of the others in combat, or even travel with them on their excursions. He instead keeps an open ear for the previous day's events. He lives on snippets of how Bull just picks up enemies and tosses them once they get too close; how Bianca got her latest scratch; and the wonders of Dorian's newest magical tricks. He grasps at mentions of the Inquisitor's fighting: did she remain merciful and calm, aiding the warriors at her side with healing and enchantments? Or did she unravel into a angry powerhouse, each flick of the staff threatening to tear the Veil further in pursuit of victory? Did she offer mercy to those that surrendered and offered fealty? Or perhaps she left their corpses as a warning to those who came next.

Sera once mentioned that Cullen asked too many questions about a certain woman-mage. He deflected it as part of his role as military advisor, but his cheeks told her otherwise.

Cullen knew little about their fearless leader, save from snippets of gossip and his own observations. In fact, he did not really know much about he trusted woman to save the world. He wanted to know more.

Much more.

But unlike the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall, the Inquisitor exists outside of dreams. He couldn't decide if that was better or worse, as she was there in the flesh and in close reach. He was no longer Ser Templar or Knight-Captain Cullen, but Cullen, right-hand man and military advisor of the Inquisition. Not exactly equals, but on better standing than a templar with a Circle mage or wanted apostate.

"Ser Cullen."

He perked up and found the eyes of the Inquisitor on him. The room had grown dim and colder, with the candles dead. They were alone. How long had he dozed off?

Two magelights surrounded his leader, shrouding her in a soft, unnatural glow. She seemed amused. The Inquisitor moved closer, taking the seat next to him, orbs of light bobbing nearby. She rested her staff on the table. Disarmament. Equalizing herself.

"Are you awake, ser?" She spoke again, softly and not unkindly for a superior that just caught a subordinate nodding off.

"Yes, serah. Just lost in thought." Cullen admitted blandly. He does not think he's seen her up this close before. They have always been separated by table, people, and countless maps to peruse and discuss. She is pretty, he noted rather blandly as well, but with no less truth in his admirance.

"Are you ill? I hear you've been rather glum lately," she asked. Her hand moved to grasp his on the table, posing its own inquiry. Her fingers held his fingers awkwardly - out of practice perhaps. The lyrium in Cullen tingles in response to her touch. A reminder: _she is a mage_.

'Glum'? Probably from Varric, he noted.

Cullen took a deep breath and his gaze turned to her hand. Long fingers, softer than he expected. It was her off-hand, not her staff-hand.

"No, messere. I have just been tired," he sighed. He twined his digits within hers, an answer to her silent question. They looked at each other, the room quietly still around them. She relaxed. Perhaps this was a gamble for her as well. He wondered if she has courted anyone before. Did she plan this? Had she anticipated speaking to him alone? Oh Maker, he was not used to this. It was too sweet, too much-

"I will be leaving tomorrow morning to investigate the next strongholds," she spoke slowly, watching his face for any change. "It will be a longer trip than usual."

Cullen nodded. "Those were the plans, yes."

"When I return," she paused, searching for the right words. Their fearless leader looked unsure, defenseless for once. A rare sight. "I, ah, enjoy your presence, Ser Cullen. When I return, I would like to get to know you better. When you are...more rested."

"I am a templar, messere," he does not address her request quite yet and hoped that this statement was enough. She nodded.

"You _were_ a templar," she corrected him and retreated her hand. Her defenses were returning. "I am still a mage, yes. It does not bother me. But I understand if you have reservations-"

"No." Cullen retrieved her hand and brought it to his lips, brushing the middle knuckle against his lips and sealing her doubts. He closed his eyes. He heard her exhale and saw her small, sweet smile when he gazed at her again. It was not a dream after all.

The Inquisitor is a mage - strong, intelligent, and determined; the woman heading the army that was to prevent the collapse of Thedas. Most importantly, she is real and in his grasp. She would not go and simply evanesce, not unless she willed it from him.

"I look forward to your return."

The Maker may have a grand sense of humor, but He smiles on His children as well.


End file.
